


New Tricks

by Penknife



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Lyrium Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: Five times Cullen found that he didn't have to do everything the hard way.





	New Tricks

Cullen has shaved himself every morning since his beard grew as a boy, mostly swiftly and in cold water, and learned to trim his own hair in the mirror. He has always felt that keeping a valet is a ridiculous affectation.  
  
“Can you recommend a decent barber in Skyhold?” he asks Dorian, who is frowning at the chessboard in concentration.  
  
“You’ve finally decided to do something interesting with your hair?” Dorian says, moving his knight with a decisive click. “Should you really encourage your admirers? There could be riots.”  
  
“I don’t have admirers,” Cullen protests, and makes the obvious counter with a pawn. He knocks over two other pieces in the process, and rights them without comment.  
  
It’s really not that Dorian is tactless. When he’s offensive, it’s usually on purpose. For example, at the moment it’s almost possible not to be aware that he’s taking in both Cullen’s unsteady hands and his unshaven face.  
  
“That shows how observant you are,” Dorian says. “If you’re interested in indecent proposals, I have several to pass along. I understand the decent ones are being directed at Josephine on your behalf.”  
  
“I’m not in need of either. Only of a shave.”  
  
“There’s a barber’s stall near the armory that’s reasonably unlikely to leave you missing an ear. Tell Bertrand I sent you, I like to be considered a fount of sartorial wisdom.”  
  
Cullen is prepared to be irritated by the process of being barbered, and finds it dismayingly difficult to resent. There is actually something to be said for warm towels and soap that doesn’t sting of lye.  
  
_Too easy_, some part of him protests, but maybe everything doesn’t always have to be hard.  
  
*****  
  
Cullen has never been late to an early morning briefing. He appears grimly at the appointed hour regardless of whether he feels entirely fit to contribute. The fact that some mornings he feels that everything is an uphill climb is not anyone’s problem but his own.  
  
He’s not certain, then, what prompts him to snap, as Leliana reads from reports that they have all already read, “Do you think we could possibly have these meetings at some more human hour?”  
  
There is a momentary pause. It’s possible that they are considering the chances that he’s been possessed. Then Josephine says, “I thought you were the one in favor of getting this out of the way before breakfast. Personally, I certainly think better somewhat later in the day.”  
  
“If you insist,” Leliana says.  
  
“We do insist,” Josephine says, turning to him with an imploring look. “Commander, please say that you insist.”  
  
“It would more easily fit into my schedule,” he says.  
  
“You should have said so,” Leliana says, and that, apparently, is all it takes to remove dawn briefings from the schedule unless there is an actual crisis.  
  
He makes a morning tour of the battlements instead, cold air to clear his head and a few minutes to talk with to the guards on duty at each of the stations. It helps to know their habits and their moods, and more than once alerts him to problems before they become catastrophes.  
  
He’s beginning to suspect that he may actually do better work when he’s kinder to himself, although it seems like that can’t possibly be right.  
  
*****  
  
Cullen rarely descends to the Great Hall for breakfast. It’s warmer than the tower, but it’s also a long way up and down stairs to face a noisy crowd, and he has little stomach for either food or company most mornings. He drinks the previous evening’s wine well-watered, when he remembers the existence of food and drink at all.  
  
He’s taking Josephine’s morning report from one of his scouts when he notices the smell permeating from the leather mug Alain is cradling in his hands. It’s tantalizing and impossible to ignore. “What _is_ that?”  
  
“Lady Montilyet got in a shipment of coffee from Antiva,” Alain says, as if Josephine has performed a miracle and earned his lifelong devotion. “She was drinking it in her study and she said I could have a cup, but you could ...?”  
  
“Not necessary,” Cullen says firmly, because he’s not in the habit of stealing his subordinates’ breakfast, but it’s possible that he’s gazing a bit covetously at the mug.  
  
The next time Alain has the morning watch, the boy comes up and sets a mug of coffee and a sausage pastry on the corner of Cullen’s desk along with his reports. “You're not stealing mine,” he says in answer to Cullen’s expression. “Lady Montilyet said to take this up to you, and that they always bring her more than enough breakfast to share.”  
  
He should probably send the reply that he’s unlikely to starve if left to his own devices, but Alain is already departing with his answering sheaf of paperwork. There’s clearly nothing to do but drink the coffee.  
  
It tastes amazing, its rich bitterness cut by honey and cream, and by the time he’s finished the drink, it occurs to him that he’s actually hungry. By the time he’s finished the pastry as well, he’s aware of a sneaking sense of well-being that is missing from mornings when his breakfast consists of stale wine. He finds this irritating, but difficult to deny.  
  
When the appearance of breakfast starts to become a regular occurrence, he nearly tells Alain that he’s capable of finding his own meals, because fetching and carrying for him isn’t anybody's job. Then it dawns on him that the boy is actually ridiculously self-satisfied at having found a way to please his stern commander. And for that matter, Josephine seems pleased with herself as well.  
  
It wouldn’t be fair to spoil if for them, he tells himself, and lets the warmth of the steaming cup bring the blood back to his cold hands.  
  
*****  
  
Cullen is in the library paging through yet another book by lamplight when Dorian says, “Burning the midnight oil?”  
  
“It’s the only time of day I can spare for research,” Cullen says. He stacks the book on top of the others he’s already consulted, and frowns at them.  
  
“Don’t tell me our collected literary resources are mute on how best to calibrate a trebuchet.”  
  
“I’m looking for information on the use of lyrium,” Cullen says. “At least, on its use by Templars. I’ve found a certain amount on its use by mages.”  
  
“I would think you’d be the best authority on the subject.”  
  
“I know what I’ve heard and seen, but less than I’d like. The best authorities on the subject are probably transforming painfully into red lyrium as we speak. Counting them out, I’ll take whatever I can get.”  
  
“Well, what have you found?” Dorian asks, coming over to investigate the row of dusty spines.  
  
“A few lines in each of several dozen books. Some of them contradict the others, several of them are third-hand hearsay, and this one’s in Tevene, in which I can just about manage to say ‘Seheron is an island.’ Actually, if you’d have time to translate the relevant page—“  
  
Dorian plucks the book from his hand, and then rifles through the rest of them swiftly. “It’s just compiling? You don’t actually need lyrium fed experimentally to nugs, or anything of that sort?”  
  
“I wouldn’t suggest cruelty to nugs where Leliana can hear you.”  
  
“Our Nightingale’s gone to bed long ago, like all good children,” Dorian says. He begins transferring the stacks of books to the nook by his own chair before Cullen can protest. “I’m told my handwriting is a bit eccentric to meet the best research assistant standards, but for you I’ll make a special effort at legibility.”  
  
“You don’t have to look through all these.”  
  
“Nonsense, I thrive on a good scavenger hunt through inadequate literature. Unless I’ll be depriving you of the pleasure?” Dorian sounds as if that’s a genuine question.  
  
“Maker, no. I’d rather be reading _Hard in Hightown_ myself. Don’t tell Varric I said so.”  
  
Dorian makes a show of scrutinizing the distant shadows for possible onlookers, and then extracts a copy of Varric’s book from underneath his chair. “Please don’t mention where you got it. And bring it back when you’re done.”  
  
“My lips are sealed,” Cullen says, and retires considerably earlier than he intended.  
  
A few days later, a folder appears on his desk containing _On the Uses and Abuses of Lyrium_, by Dorian Pavus. It’s an entire monograph. It has _citations_. It ends with a neatly organized list of unanswered questions, from the specific (_What type of hallucinations? Really, someone should have asked._) to the grim (_The actual mortality rate after discontinuing lyrium use remains unclear, as do the factors that might conceivably predict the likelihood of death. How delightful._)  
  
He doesn’t have answers for many of the questions, but at least it’s much clearer what some of the questions are. It’s possible that this is why they have mage researchers. He returns _Hard in Hightown_ with a note tucked inside the cover: _Is there, in fact, anything relevant in the library about trebuchets?_  
  
He’s decided that it can’t actually hurt to ask.  
  
*****  
  
Cullen is reading over Leliana’s shoulder as Josephine lists off the morning’s business for the Inquisitor when Josephine says, “And, now that the most urgent structural repairs are complete, we will have the resources to address certain repairs that have remained undone for—well, far too long. I promise you, Commander, that someone will see to your roof before the week is out.”  
  
“Please don’t,” he says firmly, but Josephine’s tone is just as firm.  
  
“I assure you, if I had realized the state it was in, this would have been dealt with months ago. I appreciate your willingness to bear up under trying conditions, but—“  
  
“I don’t want it fixed,” he says bluntly. “I’d like it left alone. Please.” That seems inadequate, so he adds, “Thank you.”  
  
“I see, but—“ Josephine begins, and Cullen is considering whether an appealing glance at Leliana will make the situation better or worse when Lavellan interrupts.  
  
“It’s his roof,” Lavellan says, looking as if this isn’t an argument she has the patience for, and although Josephine frowns as if her sensibilities are offended, they do manage to move on.  
  
Josephine goes out pursuing Lavellan with a stack of letters for her to sign, and Leliana begins gathering up her own papers. “She is trying to be helpful,” she says.  
  
“I appreciate her intentions.”  
  
Leliana looks up at him too perceptively. “You dislike confined spaces,” she says. “Still?” For a moment he thinks they’re both looking back through too many years.  
  
“And will you be making a note of that for your files?” he says, more sharply than he intends.  
  
“Actually, I was thinking about how to ensure that Josie’s renovation efforts remain directed elsewhere,” Leliana says, and there’s enough genuine warmth in her tone that he shrugs an apology.  
  
“I understand that both the Inquisitor and Dorian have suggested that Tevinter-style baths be installed in Skyhold,” Cullen says.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s precisely at the top of the list of priorities,” Leliana says, and Cullen ought to agree, but there is actually something entirely tempting about hot running water in deep baths whenever it’s wanted, rather than scrubbing in cold water or expecting anyone to haul buckets of hot water upstairs.  
  
“It might improve morale,” he says. “It would certainly improve mine.”  
  
“I’ll be sure to tell her so,” Leliana says.  
  
He’s beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that he’s not actually an ascetic by temperament, only by lifelong force of habit. He’s not sure what that says about him if he’s true. Possibly that he wouldn’t make a particularly good Templar. He feels that he might be able to live with that.  
  
“I’ll leave it in your hands,” he says, and decides he probably can. 


End file.
